


"Please"

by killingg_eve



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: "soft h-word hours", ASMR on paper, F/F, Tender - Freeform, it's been a long week, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingg_eve/pseuds/killingg_eve
Summary: Softness between Eve and Villanelle. A bit of an exploration, but mainly just a soothing/tender type of read.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88





	"Please"

**Author's Note:**

> **Credits to Voyager_Girl_J7 for a reference to her story called "Oksana" ([x](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25738756/chapters/62501986)) that describes how Tatiana may have been, as a mother. (Referenced and cited with permission.)

“Eve, . . .”

Villanelle had just come down from her orgasm, moments ago, but her expression was quickly repainted with a shadow of distress.

Eve didn’t know why; what was wrong?

“What is it?” Eve asks, bringing her face closer to the woman laid down beneath her. She was itching to cup her cheek or smooth a hand over her torso, but she didn’t know what Villanelle needed, and she didn’t want to push Villanelle’s limits (this suddenly fragile, delicate, vulnerable version of her).

Eve was met with silence, with a worried stare—Villanelle, frozen and just looking at her. Possibly afraid to speak.

Eve brought her voice down to a whisper and softened her face into a desperate kind of worry. “What is it?” she repeated.

“Eve, please . . .,” and her eyes became glossy.

Villanelle was scared to say it. She was hesitant. She knew exactly what she wanted, but she felt unsure of asking. Would Eve understand?

“Please, Eve, leave marks on me. I know we already . . .—I know it’s over, already. I need to have something, Eve. When we are apart, I won’t know if this really happened. I need to _know_ it did. Eve, since I won’t know how long before we see each other . . .” (“again,” she wanted to say. But she couldn’t. It was too painful.)

Eve kissed her, then, slowly and deliberately. And she opened her eyes to look into the pools of Villanelle’s eyes while she bit the woman’s lower lip. It was soft; it didn’t break skin, she didn’t want to taste blood. But her teeth left indents and redness.

Eve knew it was the right move when she let go and leaned back, a bit, wanting to see Villanelle better. And what Villanelle did, then, was suck her lower lip into her mouth, running her tongue over the groove Eve left. Cherishing it, already. Reveling in the comfort it brought, already.

Eve wanted to be a soothing presence. She wanted to be a lullaby to Villanelle, while Villanelle was awake: a meditation. She made her voice so quiet that it would only be perceivable if she spoke directly into Villanelle’s ear.

“Where? Where do you want them? Tell me.”

Villanelle was so delicate, beneath her. She drank in Eve’s whispers with her eyes closed, and reassurance flooded over her when Eve promised to fulfill what she asked for; like Eve understood why, or at least wasn’t going to seek further justification. Eve would just do it, because she was that wonderful.

Villanelle still trembled slightly, when she spoke again. It wasn’t so much about nervousness as it was about trying to stay present, trying to fathom that Eve was really going to do this for her.

“Anywhere, Eve. Everywhere . . .” she whimpered the last words, “I’m yours.”

She says Eve’s name so often, like it’s a wish or a prayer. It’s as though Villanelle is further trying to comfort herself, like some sort of declaration that she really _is_ here with the person she cares about most. After chasing and hiding and doing desperate things—stealing a scarf, trying to capture Eve’s curls on paper—Eve is _right here_ , and Villanelle affirms this, each time she speaks the name (always delicately, always laced with endearment) into the air between them.

Eve needed to remind her of what was already there. She lowered herself until she was hovering over Villanelle’s waist, finding the neat “dash” above her hip: the scar from when she’d stabbed Villanelle, so long ago. She tentatively smoothed her thumb over the scar. It was raised and a lighter shade of ivory, but it was smooth, now. Eve worshiped the mark beneath her thumb, being so tender, as though it would still incite pain.

Villanelle just stared. She looked serene and patient.

Eve didn’t lose Villanelle’s eye contact as she pressed a kiss onto the scar.

Villanelle became suddenly talkative and unsettled, again, after the warmth of the kiss melted away.

“Eve, it doesn’t hurt anymore. It used to sting; it used to keep me awake. Now there’s so much _nothing_. I want to feel something, Eve.”

Eve smoothed her fingers over the scar while Villanelle spoke. When Eve understood what Villanelle needed, she was quick to give it. She chose a patch of Villanelle’s soft skin, to the right of the scar. She took the skin into her mouth, until she was sure that the mark would last for as long as possible.

Villanelle held herself still. It was always a little bit painful, these marks. This area of her abdomen was sensitive and vulnerable, but she trusted Eve with it.

Once Eve finished, she passed her fingers over the mark and looked to Villanelle. Was this enough?

Villanelle looked at the purple-ish mark, needing to contort her neck, to do so. She was relieved. Had it not been so perfect, she probably would have been tempted to ask Eve to draw a knife into her, again. (She knew Eve would never—Eve, although unprompted, had promised her this, once. _Never_.)

Eve could tell that Villanelle was satisfied with this, so she created another mark on the other side of the scar, while Villanelle admired the first.

The gesture was so specific. Eve knew what to do (and maybe she understood why). Eve was so perfect towards Villanelle, always. She wasn’t permissive of Villanelle’s manipulations, per say, but she knew what Villanelle truly needed, at her core. Eve knew that she was the first to truly care for Villanelle. She tried to give more of everything: more affection, more kind words, more pleasure. Eve knew that if Villanelle had never tasted love, before, then the love she gave needed to be deliberate.

“I love you, Eve,” Villanelle said in a shaky whisper, when she felt Eve making a second mark. She looked down at Eve. Wanted to envelope her, all of her light and beauty.

Eve found the other woman’s hand and squeezed it, when the words settled.

Eve finished the bruising mark, which showed up just as dark as the first, then found her way back up to Villanelle’s ear. She laid down beside Villanelle and wrapped an arm around her.

“Oksana,” Eve whispered, her choice intentional, “I love you.”

Villanelle held her breath as long as she could, then let out an uneven breath. Pained, maybe. Because Konstantin had told Villanelle that he loved her. Eve had told Villanelle that she loved her. But no one had ever told _Oksana_ that she was loved. Not even Anna. Not Tatiana, the woman who threw a box of dry cereal at her as a toddler, to quiet her pleas for food. And then abandoned her, forever, with false promises of coming back. This was a first, and it deserved time to be processed.

It was a long time before Villanelle could speak. Eve knew that she was lost in thought, but Villanelle always came back. Eve didn’t know, this time, if maybe she made the wrong choice. She wanted to doubt herself. She wanted to, but in her gut, she knew it was right because she meant every part of what she said, in every way that it could be received.

(With her naked, here, and so raw, how could she call the woman Villanelle? Villanelle in expensive dresses. Villanelle, layered in luxury. The same Villanelle who came to bed and purred wonderful things at Eve—seduced her, fucked her dirty, when Eve needed it. But this particular version of the woman, stripped completely bare, feeding off of love and closeness, wanting to be held and soothed—it was Oksana. Undeniably.)

Villanelle eventually removed her gaze from the ceiling, turning towards Eve and being met with Eve’s eye contact. Eve was patient, open.

“Please,” Villanelle exhaled. She wanted to cut herself off, feeling she had asked for too much, already. She made herself small in Eve’s grasp. “Could you say it again?”

Eve kissed her and pulled her closer, pressing their foreheads together.

“I love you, Oksana.”

It was still soft. But purposefully matter-of-fact. The statement bore no open-endedness, no room for uncertainty.

Oksana, who closed her eyes and sighed against Eve, and let every drop of tension loose from her being, no longer needed to be covered in bruises and reminders. With this, she was whole.


End file.
